


The Beginning

by NeriEsle



Series: The Real Events of Series 4 [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Fluff, Friendship, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 22:16:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9462707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeriEsle/pseuds/NeriEsle
Summary: The road to forgiveness is paved with baby vomit.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many missing scenes from Series 4 that are screaming to be written. This was one of them.

* * *

When John walked into 221b with Rosie in one arm, a bag of takeaway in the other, surprise wasn’t quite what Sherlock felt.

It was a strong reaction. Internal, obviously. Wrenched from him Mind Palace by a few fierce, thundering heartbeats, and then softer, quicker pulses. The loosening of the muscles of his shoulders, back, and chest. The sensation of something inside him vanishing him, but rather than feeling hollow, feeling… lighter. Less confined. Freer.

_Oh_. Relief.

Keeping his face neutral, Sherlock drawled, “I thought Molly had the two to six shift today.”

“She did.” John strode over to where Sherlock sat on the couch, and deposited Rosie into his arms. Sherlock caught her automatically. “I told her she could have the day off.”

Rosie craned her head around in confusion as John walked away to the kitchen. She looked up at Sherlock, and for a moment, her blue eyes stared at Sherlock blankly. She already looked so much older than the last time he’d seen her. She was becoming a person, rather than a ball of drooling plasma. And her eyes…

_Mary’s eyes_. Sherlock swallowed hard.

“I got you the chicken,” John said from the kitchen. “Or did you want the veg?”

Sherlock stared at the miniature Watson on his lap. He cleared his throat so it would sound normal. “Doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock witnessed the moment recognition set in. Rosie’s face split into a gummy grin, showing off two front teeth. “Sa!” Her eyes crinkled in delight, her cheeks puffing out.

_John’s grin_.

The lump in Sherlock’s throat melted a bit, and he smiled at her. “Hello again, Watson.”

“ _Sa_!” Rosie struggled to turn around to face him. Sherlock helped her, but before he knew it, she’d pitched herself forward and planted her face just under his chin, against his chest.

The same place he’d held John yesterday.

And like yesterday, his lungs suddenly felt compressed, though not as painfully as yesterday. Before he could become too sentimental, Rosie’s tiny hands pushed herself off Sherlock’s chest so she could see his face properly. She smiled open-mouthed again and squealed, “Sa!” She very nearly whacked him in the face with a lime-green plush toy clutched in her tiny fist.

“Guess she missed you,” John chuckled from the kitchen.

“Missed you too, Watson,” Sherlock whispered so only she’d hear. Rosie was going mad with delight. Her wobbly legs could not yet support her weight, yet were powerful enough to nearly launch her from Sherlock’s lap and into his face. He gripped her by the ribs, not too tight yet firm enough so she wouldn’t send herself flying as she bounced up and down, her sneakers digging into his femurs. She let out a piercing shriek, waving her arms and plush toy at his face. “Sa! A Sa!”

“Steady,” Sherlock gently scolded, and to his surprise, Rosie calmed a bit, although her open-mouthed smile remained. She reached out and tried to grab his nose, which was still quite sore, so he caught her fingers in his lips and pretended to eat them.

Her breath-stealing laughter forced a smile onto his face. God, he’d missed her. He released her fingers, planting a quick fluttering kiss on them and caught John watching them from the kitchen doorway.

It really was John, watching them. The John whose eyes were soft, with none of the bright, grief-fueled anger they’d held for so long. The lines of his face were hidden, making him look as open and trusting of Sherlock as when they first met. His mouth was relaxed in a lazy smile, rather than the tense pucker that had occupied it as of late. And he leaned against the doorframe as though content to stay there forever, at ease and unhurried. Affection seeped from his gaze as he watched them, and when Sherlock caught his eye, John didn’t try to hide it, and for a moment, Sherlock was the sole recipient of that affection, and it nearly choked him.

He really was forgiven.

Then Rosie threw up all over him.

“Bollocks.” John swooped in and took a now wailing Rosie from Sherlock. Her green plushie fell into Sherlock’s vomit-covered lap. “Sorry Sherlock. Seems just seeing you was too much excitement.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Sherlock insisted in a thin voice, turning his head away from the stench of baby puke seeping into his favorite dressing gown.

“Go wash it off, oh… it’s gone right through your shirt. Mind if we take the sink? She’s got it all down her front.”

“There’ve been worse things in the sink,” Sherlock gestured to the kitchen with one hand, the other holding the green plush toy between his fingertips. “What exactly is this? Can it be… disposed of?”

“Of course you’d have deleted the muppets. No, Sherlock, she’ll make life hell if she doesn’t have Kermit.”

“He’s completely unsanitary now.”

“Says the man who keeps decomposing body parts next to the risotto,” John shook his head as he turned on the kitchen faucet, Rosie’s clothes in a smelly pile on the floor.

Sherlock hesitated behind the bathroom door for a moment to listen to John calmly shushing Rosie’s whimpers over the running faucet. He then shut himself in the bathroom and turned, leaning against it, just basking in the normal, boring, _wonderful_ sounds happening in his flat with John here.

“Do you have any non-toxic plates we can use?” John called.

“Mrs. Hudson does,” Sherlock said, turning his head sideways so his ear was against the door. He heard John huff an exasperated laugh. “Naturally. Come on, Rosie girl. Let’s get you clean and go see Mrs. H while Sherlock gets clean. She’ll be chuffed to see you.”

Forcing himself away from the door and the sounds of the people on the other side, Sherlock shed his soiled clothes and decided on a bath rather than a shower. Mrs. Hudson would want to dote on Rosie for a while.

Sherlock’s body cried out in relief as he sank into the hot water; he hadn’t realized how exhausted he was, how much in pain he was, until he was fully submerged in the bath and rested his head back against the lip of the tub.

It made sense, though. After yesterday’s outpouring of emotions, from the jarring realization that John was hallucinating Mary (Sherlock’s own experiences of hallucinating people who weren’t there came at times of severe internal distress), to John weeping uncontrollably in Sherlock’s arms and accepting the comfort and affection Sherlock longed to give, to the overwhelming guilt that not all of John’s tears were for Mary, Sherlock hadn’t slept the night before. Rather, he’d laid on the couch, every muscle tense, as he wondered what John was thinking that very moment. John hadn’t been sleeping since Mary’s death, that much was obvious.

Sherlock hadn’t slept much, himself, since Mary’s death.

After John’s tears has subsided and he’d pulled back a bit, wiping his face and sighing with more exhaustion than hopelessness, after he’d accepted the tissues and tea Sherlock offered, and sat back down in his chair after he’d made to leave only moments before, Sherlock had allowed himself to hope.

They’d talked. John hadn’t retreated as he usually did when his emotions threatened to show. They’d made plans for Sherlock’s birthday. They’d gone out and had a lovely afternoon with Molly. And when cake was over and night had come, John had called a cab and turned to shake Sherlock’s hand goodbye with a parting, “I’ll try to bring Rosie by sometime soon.”

The promise of a future meeting nearly had Sherlock skipping back to his flat. But once he’d changed into his nightclothes and the sugar high had worn off, Sherlock sat on the couch, thinking far too much about those final words, and worried.

“Sometime soon” was rather vague. Had John said that simply to avoid a fight, so that he could leave and spend the rest of his life avoiding Sherlock? Had he gone home and realized that actually, being friends with Sherlock was more trouble than he was worth, and it would probably be safer for John and Rosie to stay away? Sherlock did cause John more pain that a normal, healthy relationship called for. Was John thinking about that embrace as much as Sherlock, and was he embarrassed? Ashamed? Disgusted? Or would their next meeting be just as formal and forced as it had been the past several months?

Sherlock had fretted all night long, his Mind Palace torturing him as he ran through the bare, dark, cold hall, shouting for John, who eluded him, vanishing around corners, his footsteps echoing distantly.

And then suddenly it was afternoon of the next day, and John was bursting into his flat, with Rosie and food, and rummaging through Sherlock’s kitchen like he owned the place.

Sherlock dipped his chin below the surface of the bath water, hiding a grin he felt was indecently wide.

_John was back._

Moreover, John had brought his daughter and handed her right to Sherlock, all because Sherlock said he’d wanted to see her. And John brought takeaway from a place he knew Sherlock liked.

The joy that suddenly bubbled up in Sherlock’s chest should have sent his body to the surface of the water and beyond. He felt light… free. Exhausted, yes, but unburdened. Never in his life had he been so elated to be wrong. Never in his life had Sherlock been so relieved.

Suddenly in a wonderful mood, he lifted a sudsy arm and reached down to pick up the plush green toy that Rosie had vomited all over. He set it up on the spigot of the tub, and a quick google search on his phone showed him the creature’s ridiculous origins. Rolling his eyes, he settled back so that only his head, hands, and knees were above water, he scrolled through his phone, passing the time until the aches in his body melted into the hot water.

When he finally emerged, skin soft and clean, muscles languid, having successfully killed an hour by hacking into the BBC’s twitter account (child’s play, shameful yet amusing), he put on clean clothes and a clean dressing gown, slid into slippers, and descended to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. He found Rosie crawling around on the floor, while Mrs. Hudson and John chatted happily, watching her. Rosie was wearing one of Sherlock’s old T-shirts, and was practically swimming in it. She could barely crawl without tripping in it, which made John and Mrs. Hudson dissolve into giggles as they watched the baby roll around on the ground in confusion.

“Oh good, you haven’t drowned,” John said by way of greeting when Sherlock sat on the sofa and watched John’s child wearing one of Sherlock’s shirts, and trying to maneuver her way around the floor in it.

“It was a pungent smell.”

“Sorry, I didn’t have any spare clothes. Had to nick one of your old shirts.”

“I think she likes it,” Sherlock pointed out as Rosie stuck the collar in her mouth and chewed.

“I thought... maybe, we could keep an emergency backup set in your flat, in case it happens again?”

Sherlock tore his eyes from Rosie to stare at John, who watched him calmly. Sherlock swallowed, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Mrs. Hudson cooed, clapping her hands in front of her chest. “I have missed this little love.”

“Wait until she regurgitates her lunch on you,” Sherlock muttered as Rosie crawled over to him. She grabbed his trouser leg, beaming up at him as she struggled to claw her way into a stand while stepping on the overlong shirt.

“Still. It’s nice to have a child in the house. Brings some magic to the place,” Mrs. Hudson said, gazing wistfully at Rosie who batted Sherlock knee, babbling demands at him.

“I think she’s hungry,” John said. “I am. Your bath took long enough.”

“Sa!” Rosie agreed, batting Sherlock’s knees.

“Yes, right, you normal people need your food,” Sherlock said, tapping her on the nose as he picked her up and stood. “Early dinner, then.”

“We’ll stop by before we go,” John promised Mrs. Hudson as they left her flat.

Back upstairs, Sherlock set Rosie on the sofa, which had miraculously been spared of baby vomit, as most of it had landed on Sherlock. He quickly cleared the coffee table while John heated up the takeaway, and then they sat down to eat side-by-side on the couch, Rosie between them.

“Anything on tomorrow night?” John asked as he spooned mush into Rosie’s eager mouth.

“No. Lestrade is being incredibly stubborn with some ‘60 days sober’ rubbish.” Sherlock huffed, scowling into his chicken platter. “He’ll be begging for my help by the end of the week.”

“Dinner tomorrow night? My treat.”

Sherlock fought to keep the grin from his face, but smiled at John in what he hoped wasn’t a too-hopeful manner. “Yes.”

John smiled back. It was his real smile… not the sarcastic one, nor the angry one, nor the polite one. He was pleased. “Good. I do owe you.”

“What for?”

John looked down at his own food, his smile vanishing. “For kicking the shite out of you, really.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but the words vanished. Worry fluttered into his mind again. “There’s no need, John.”

“It was a rubbish thing to do. Scared myself.”

“John.”

He waited, and it took a few seconds, but John did meet his eye, looking chagrined.

“Angelo’s?”

John’s face split into a grin, and the worry vanished. “Not fair, I said I’d treat you.”

There was a tiny fist thumping his arm, and he looked down to see Rosie grinning up at him through the mash smeared on her chin and nose.

Sherlock returned her grin, swallowing through the tightness in his throat.

“You are.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just the first of many missing scenes...


End file.
